


Lovers' Tiff

by Cali_se



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: First Time, M/M, Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-21
Updated: 2012-11-21
Packaged: 2017-11-19 04:50:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,898
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/569291
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cali_se/pseuds/Cali_se
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Emotions have always been an avoidable nuisance for Sherlock. Until now.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Lovers' Tiff

Almost two hours have passed since John walked out, slamming the door behind him. Despite his best efforts, Sherlock can't help but notice the passing of the time; and he tired long ago of feigning disinterest in the whereabouts of his friend.

The tea Mrs Hudson made an hour ago sits half consumed on the table. She'd 'popped up' to see if everything was all right. "A lovers' tiff, Sherlock dear? I'll make some tea." Sherlock hadn't even bothered to correct her. Even now, he isn't entirely sure her assumption was wrong. 

Lovers. The word crosses his lips as snatched fragments of conversation come back to him. With them comes the image of John, standing in his customary straight backed stance, his composure dangerously jeopardised.

_You know what I think, Sherlock? I think you're scared._

_Of what, exactly?_

_Losing yourself. In another person. You think it'll change you somehow, dampen your intellect._

_Is that a doctor's diagnosis? Or my blogger's assertion?_

_Can't it just be an observation from a friend?_

Somewhere along the line there had been a misunderstanding. (Was it a misunderstanding? Or had John understood too well?) Soon after that it had become fairly heated, John's mood changing from kindly, to hurt, to angry. He'd taken as much as he could take of Sherlock's retorts, before taking himself out of the picture. 

Almost two hours ago.

"Where are you, John?" Sherlock asks aloud as he looks out of the window and down onto the street. He picks up his phone as it sounds a message, hopeful that John has given up his pride first. But the text is from Mycroft, a typically pompous query Sherlock can leave be for now. For a moment he considers calling John. He resists the temptation. He considers going out to look for him, but resists that too. He can't put a logical spin on why he cares so deeply. Can't recall exactly when John had become a part of him. 

He's settled - after a fashion - in a chair, his hands clasped together in his lap, when he hears the key in the door, followed by familiar footsteps - this time slower and gentler on the stairs. Finally, John appears. 

"You've been a while," Sherlock observes, his relief masked by the cool tone of his voice. 

John looks directly at him, waits a moment before speaking. "I'm surprised you even noticed." 

Sherlock spares his watch a passing glance. "Two hours... twenty minutes."

"I went for a long walk. Had a coffee. I had some thinking to do. Is that okay with you?"

Sherlock considers a response, but instead looks away. 

"Is that it?" John asks. "Because I'm _really_ bloody cold and I need to have a shower. So--"

"I’ll make some tea, shall I? Help... warm you up.”

“If you like."

John turns on his heel, his expression somewhere between exasperation and resignation, with something else lurking deeper inside. Sherlock watches him leave the room, and then busies himself making their tea. He replies to Mycroft's message while the water boils. A short, not so sweet: _No._ Then another is sent in reply to Lestrade: _Ask the brother if he ever wore odd socks._

A new message alerts him. Mycroft again. _Don't be impertinent. I need a little more than no._

"That may be so but you won't get it, Mycroft," he says aloud, and he allows a smile to quirk his lips as he takes two cups of tea through to the sitting room. He places a saucer over John's to keep in the heat, and stands at the window as he drinks his, looking down across Baker Street, wondering where all the criminals are. _You have gone so quiet._

John comes in presently, towelling his hair dry. He looks slightly ruffled, soft and warm now in comfy clothes. _Mine_. The thought appears unbidden. Sherlock shakes it away and hands John his tea.

"Thanks." John takes a sip and leafs through the newspapers. Picking out a couple, he sits down to read. He clears his throat several times and shifts in his seat, obviously not concentrating on reading at all, but more on his attempt to move on from earlier events. Sherlock observes him for a while from his vantage point at the window, formulating his approach, before taking a seat himself. 

"John?" he says at last.

"Mm." 

"What you said..."

With a small dismissive shake of his head, John replies, "I can't, Sherlock. Not now."

"Hear me out. Please."

"You don't have to say anything. And let's face it, placating people isn't really your strong suit."

"I'm not placating anyone."

"Okay." John folds the newspaper shut and turns his full attention on Sherlock. "Okay. Go on."

"What you said. Earlier. About losing myself. It's true, John. Everything you said is true. As I've told you before, it's not really my area. Girlfriends. Boyfriends. Relationships. Sentimental things..."

"I'm not asking for sentimental."

"Sometimes I think Mycroft and I weren't made with emotions like other people. I've always thought they were an avoidable nuisance. Only meant for other people... dull, ordinary... "

"Like me."

"No. Not like you. Not at all like you, that’s the point. What I'm trying to say is... I haven't really known this before. I've always maintained a certain detachment. Emotionally. These feelings I have for you. They're... They're not me. Or at least, they _weren't_."

"Sherlock, it's happened. We can't go back, brush it under the carpet and pretend it hasn't. It's new for me too. It's always been women. Yes, Sherlock, I know there hasn't been a fat lot of evidence of that working out lately, but I have _had_ girlfriends. I don't know why, with you I--." He takes a breath and sighs. "It's happened," he continues. "And now we just need to decide what we do next."

"I've worked alone, John - been alone - for so long. In the truest sense of the word, I mean. In here." Sherlock touches a hand to his head. "And I'm not used to having that challenged. We met for a reason, that day you came to see me about the flat. We both knew it at once. And I thought I knew what that reason was. But it's only now that I really know. You're... you're the chink in my armour. The flaw in my argument. My _crisis_. Don't you see? I... You must know, John. I... "

"What? Sherlock, say it. Please."

John moves to sit beside Sherlock on the sofa. The room is very still apart from that; the quietude seems to have created a soundscape all of its own.

"I want you."

John allows himself a small smile as he reaches out and takes Sherlock's hand. He nods - _me too_ \- then leans in closer; his breath smells faintly of mint. Sherlock has time to inhale and exhale just once before they press their lips together. For the second time that day, Sherlock finds himself being kissed by John Watson. Only, this time, he doesn't pull away. He doesn't feel the need to be cold or carelessly cruel. He doesn't feel the need to own himself wholly. Not any more. He's gone past that now. Bit by bit he lets John in; opens his mouth to John's gentle persuasion, lets John's tongue inside, slides his own against it. John's hands are warm against Sherlock's cheeks as he cups his face. As the kiss deepens, they move round to cup Sherlock's neck and Sherlock lets his own fingers slide into John's hair. John smells fresh and warm, of shampoo and soap, and a faintly musky scent. His lips are tender but persistent, much like his character. His body is sturdy, but yields in all the right places; his pulse is pounding at his wrist, against his chest; his voice slips like silk over Sherlock's consciousness. "Come to bed." 

Sherlock meets John's gaze and finds urgency and desire in its depths. The two men get to their feet as they kiss again, and make their way through the flat to Sherlock's bedroom. Sherlock can feel the world tilting on its axis as he lies down beside John and takes him in his arms. A line is poised to be crossed then, as the need to touch beyond the cover of clothing grows too great to ignore. 

"Sherlock..." John breaths and the sound of his voice brings with it another surge of desire and jolt of vulnerability. A few awkward movements later and they're naked, and another line is slowly being drawn by John's lips and tongue, hot and damp against Sherlock's skin; a line drawn in the sand, urging him to cross over it before the tide comes in and washes it away...

He hears a voice. It's his own, pleading for John's touch. It feels as though he's drifted outside of himself. His mouth moves, murmurs endearments, whispers John’s name, but it seems to belong to another man. The man he is becoming. Here with John. Someone's lover, naked, being touched by gentle hands as delicious, slow-building arousal strives to reach the point of no return. His eyes drift close, despite his efforts to keep them open. It doesn't feel like giving in anymore, or giving himself up and being left with only half of himself. Rather, it's two wholes meeting, merging for a while, and then moving parallel. There'll be more of each man afterwards because each adds something to the other. 

Sherlock's long, lithe body entwines with John's stockier frame, and they fit together so well he wonders why it's taken them so long to try it. They stay like that because it feels good, their bodies pressed together, fitting all the way from their lips to their feet. They use instinct and one another's reactions to get the contact and the rhythm just right, and soon they find their pace. Making love with their mouths and fingers, aching hardness against aching hardness, they bring each other to climax. John comes with a cry, his eyes squeezed shut, his mouth open. Sherlock takes longer, but only a fraction. He's vaguely aware of something warm and liquid-slick against his belly but is distracted by the need to finish, to join John in his ecstasy. He holds John tight, buries his face in the crook of his neck and lets himself go, John's name on his breath as waves of pleasure overwhelm him. 

They lie together for a long while afterwards, sweaty and spent, catching their breath as their hearts slow down to a more sedate pace. Sherlock comes round to find his body lulled, but his mind still sharp. Relief trickles like raindrops from his head to his feet. _So I can have this too..._

When they pull apart at last, Sherlock lies on his back and looks up at the ceiling, tracing the patterns there, utterly certain that John's eyes are on him, watching his profile. Eventually he turns to look back at him, and sees in his eyes what he knows - what he admits - they both want to say. He takes the hand that John offers to him and, without a word, responds. One day one of them will say it out loud, will realise that nothing else can be said. But, for now, this is enough, that it's in the air between them, unspoken yet mutually acknowledged like a sacred, shared secret. Beautiful, inevitable, perfect.


End file.
